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Mummy woke up at ungodly hours to pray. Adorned in white. With one hand she would sprinkle holy water held in a white keg and swing her incense burner with the other. I loved the familiarity of the sweet smelling musky smoke that engulfed our home. I hated how the smoke stuck to every item of clothing; lingering in the house for hours, announcing us as foreigners to unfamiliar western friends.

Mummy prayed for each of her children according to their birth order, Iwalola. Omowunmi. Folashade. Moses. Titilolami. She could have prayed for us collectively and halved her prayer time. But she took the long route, one by one. Perhaps she thought God needed to be reminded that she had four daughters and a son. Perhaps she was pleading with him not to inadvertently forget one or two.

Mummy had a standard list of prayer requests; good health, long life, good husbands, good children. Never wealth, never great careers. Her list aligned with her values. And it didn’t change unless we were going through a particular challenge. If I had exams coming up, she would add success to the list. And if she was upset or disappointed about our behavior, she would add obedience and rebuke bad influences.

I always thought the prayers for good husbands took precedence over other requests. I could tell by the slight change in her tone and pitch. She would raise her voice ever so slightly, tilt her head towards the heaven and swing the incense burner a bit more vigorously before embarking on the request for God fearing men; Men who would love and provide for her daughters and their offsprings. The prayer always started in the positive; the things she wanted in a son in-law. And then she would pray against husbands who only sought to use her daughters to obtain British citizenship. She would pray against low life’s. These included uneducated men, men with a family history of mental illnesses, men whose families practised juju, unemployed men, philanderers, or any man whose behaviour or character didn’t glorify her God.

The prayers for my brother were special. In addition to the general requests for long life, good health and in his case a good wife, mummy would pray against physical and spiritual enemies who aimed to change, steal or alter her son’s destiny. She would pray against ancestral curses, demonic influences and bad company. The prayers for him took the longest and were the most farfetched. Up until now I remain bemused that she placed so much emphasis on unseen attackers, instead of attacking visible forces.

I’m sure my mother’s prayers haven’t changed very much. I’m sure they didn’t get shorter with each marriage. Indeed they must have grown longer with the birth of each grandchild. I’m sure she has carried on the tradition of calling each grandchild by name; offering identical prayers on their behalf. I’m sure she is relieved to have us girls out of the house and with that the freedom to pray in her Nigerian dialect, without switching from English, to Ondo, to Yoruba, trying but failing to accommodate the various ears of her children. I’m sure she still starts with the recitation of a psalm, followed by the the different names folks call God; Jehovah, Jesu Kristi, Holy st Michael, Oba Imole. I’m sure she still ends her prayers with Psalm 23 and not the Lords prayer.

And here I am, at that same ungodly hour, head raised to the heaven in prayer. I I pray for my children, calling on each by name in order, offering identical prayers . At this ungodly hour perhaps there are just a few billion of us clamoring for God’s attention. soon I’ll be back to quick mornings mumblings, thanking you in 30 seconds flat and trusting you to know and appease the desires of my heart. I’ll miss our midnight rendezvous just as I miss my mother’s prayers.

I was going to give a powerful speech on my 40th birthday but I was deliriously tipsy I can’t remember anything I said, and I know for sure no one else can either. So it’s a good thing I blog. Here are some reflections so far which does not include my heartfelt thank you to everyone who has helped me on my journey thus far

The 40’s Blues

When January snuck its horrid pale head through I went into a sulk, a sulk I struggled to get out of for months. If I’m honest it was more than a sulk, it was a full blown sad mood, but not quite a depression. It was all the more annoying because friends and family constantly reminded me that I was going to turn 40 this year! Like I didn’t know. And they kept asking what the celebratory plans were, when I was in no celebratory mood. And when I showed my disdain, they reminded me of all my blessings which was equally as irritating as reminding me I was about to turn 40. If 40 hits you like it hit me, just let the low moods take its course, wallow if you must, it will pass, especially if you have good friends prepared to hear you moan and bitch.

The vanity of becoming invisible

For me 40 was that age when I firmly became middle age and invisible. I was no longer a youngish female, no longer in my prime of attractiveness. As a feminist I felt completely disappointed with myself for even letting society or its standards of beauty f*** with my head, but it did. And whether you agree or not, women become more and more invisible as they age. The box that society tries to enclose us in gets even smaller. All of a sudden there are even more rules; you ought not to wear certain things, go to certain places, or get too drunk. Even I, had created rules for myself prior to turning 40, useless rules. I once announced on Facebook, at the age of 35 or so that I was going to give-up my hot pants at 40. I will not. I’ve changed my mind. I have great legs! Science also conspires against us. these are facts. Your metabolism slows down by 2%. Your muscle tone is down by 7 pounds from 10 years ago. Your libido declines because of hormonal changes. Stress is higher because of worries about kids, parents, career and finances. the worry is real! I slept at 1:00am yesterday completely in a wreck about whether my daughter would get into the extremely selective free school in our area. And research shows that depression is more likely now than in later in life. What the actual f***.

There is no such thing as perfection

My late 30’s were amazing because I embraced my imperfections more and I relinquished any attempt to them from others. Chasing perfection, or wanting others to see you or your lifestyle as perfect will keep you entrapped in a world where you can’t express your need for support. You will be trapped in a world where you can’t relax. You will be trapped in a world where you can’t be open and honest with your friends or family about the challenges you are facing. And the saddest thing is you will limit your connection with people. You will limit deeper understanding, insight, and even respect, because your pursuit of perfection keeps everything on the surface. I am not perfect. And my greatest delight in my 30’s was being able to reveal that to others. My relationship is not perfect. My children are not perfect. My finances – not perfect. Sometimes my children go out wearing the most ridiculous clothes, because they choose it, and because I’d rather let their own identity develop without superficial interruptions from me, than worry about whether they look or are perceived as well-turned out. My daughter got a shocking 22% in a maths paper! I actually was stunned into silence!! Sometimes I snap at my husband and he at me for the most ridiculous reasons and!! and on a good day you will see me in London looking disheveled, without a scrap of makeup because I am not not not not about that perfect lifestyle. Perfection is a burden and a trap. And it would keep you from excelling. Let it goooooooooo.

Walk in your own light always

I have always hated and dreaded failure, so much so that I was probably handicapped by it in my 20’s. But things changed as I turned 30. I can’t tell you specifically what changed, but it sure had something to do with reading a fantastic quote by Marianne Williamson.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

In my 30’s I stepped outside of my box on numerous occasions because I remembered this quote. For years I wanted to start a charity but held back because I knew there would be critics (myself being the biggest one), not least because anything attached to Nigeria lends itself to criticism, some well-deserved, some not. I also knew I didn’t necessarily have all the expertise I needed, and I’m certainly not Mary Slessor. However, reading that quote nearly 10 years ago gave me the confidence to dare a little bit more, step out a little bit more. I have learnt the importance of showing the different aspects of me, and I’ve become even more content as an individual for this freedom. There is Titilolami the philanthropist, the career woman, the fitness lover, the scandalous dresser, the wife, the mum, and more to come. Being true to all of those facets is a recipe for self-actualisation and contentment. We as women can be more than wives and mums if we choose to be. But it is not easy. I have always had to fight and be resolutely stubborn in the quest to be myself. You cannot do it if the approval of others is important to you. And for someone who is not religious I seek only God’s approval.

My greatest achievement yet

My greatest achievement till date is the charity Path to Possibilities. All from an idea that we could do more collectively. With the hard work of volunteers this charity has established a learning Resource Centre in Ikota, Lagos. This is a purposely designed building offering free access to books, other learning resources and soon computers. The center opened in November 2016, and it is used by over 300 children each week now!. A video link is attached here https://youtu.be/Llk5qJpstDQ. We built a Borehole for Idale primary school in Ogun State, Nigeria. This school had no access to water for 50 years. We built and fully kitted two libraries for Asarudin secondary school in Ondo State Nigeria, and Idale primary school in Ogun State. We are currently sponsoring 11 children in full time secondary education at Caleb International School (Lekki and Magodo branches). We currently support three secondary school graduates, our first scholarship recipient is in Imo state University studying Government and Politics.

This has been possible with my full time job, my role as wife and mum because I decided to step out of my comfort zone. When you think about the lives you might inspire, the lives you can affect, not to talk about the personal satisfaction of beginning to realize your own potential why wouldn’t you step out. This applies not just to charitable deeds but to everyday life; that business you are planning to start may be the business that pulls someone out of poverty because you offered that someone a job. That job you are afraid to apply for (once you get it) may be the catalyst which propels someone below you to aim higher, work harder. When you shine you give others permission to shine and to sometimes outshine you. You give them permission to walk in their own light, even if you are just beginning to glow in yours.

WHAT NEXT FOR THE 40’s

There is so much left in me and death is my motivator. I told my friend recently that when you have grown up knowing death at a young age, my father died when I was about 6 or 7. That certainty that you might not live till old age can be the best motivator for living your best life. There is more to come because death is certain.

Something about turning 40 this July emboldens me to be more vocal about the things that matter to me, so today I’m inspired to write about the reality that marriage, motherhood, and in-laws can sometimes be shit. Let’s take each as a standalone topic.

The one about marriage: I recently said marriage was overrated on my Instagram page. Some may highlight the irony of my own marital status, but I don’t think it’s a dichotomy to say Marriage is overrated while being married. You can be in a good marriage yet believe that it’s overrated because it doesn’t measure up to the fairy tale and happy ever after stories we were sold.

I don’t want to digress, so let me focus on the reasons I believe marriage is overrated. I’ve learnt and seen a lot to make me conclude that there is something fundamentally warped and obscene about how aspects of the Nigerian ‘culture’, or rather, how entrenched interests within the culture conspire to place unacceptable levels of control on the Nigerian wife. As a consequence, husbands, even good husbands, are emboldened and empowered to indulge in excesses that are detrimental to their wives, children and the wider society.

Marriage is overrated because in the privacy of girl talk, in that safe space where females open up and talk about things they really ought to take to a therapist I have heard too much. And if you really want to learn about the extent of the decay in Nigerian marriages, and the ‘cultural’ acquiescence of the accompanying stench, then do join the Facebook Group FIN (Females in Nigeria).

The decomposition

Couples are living in separate rooms but attending church together. Husbands have families outside their matrimonial homes but their wives are advised to pray. Wives are being told to do whatever it takes to keep their families together, even at the detriment of their own mental or general wellbeing. Successful wives are told to downplay their success least it offends their husband. In the face of domestic violence, the church will advise that ‘God hates divorce’. Parents are refusing to provide a safe haven for their battered daughters because ‘what will people say’. Wives are told to not argue with their husbands because this is what leads to him hitting her. Wives are being told that as long as side chicks remain on the side all is well.

Husbands are absolving themselves of raising their children because they are lazy; but he is excused as ‘traditional’’. Husbands are absolving themselves of financial responsibility but we are told to accept it because you know ‘till death do us part’. Some wives can’t go to the toilet without seeking permission from their husbands. Some marriages are sexless, completely sexless; 6 months, one year, two years of no sex. Wives are advised to treat infidelity like a mosquito bite – a mild irritant, instead of the first signs of decomposition that it is. Wives are supposed to be subservient and respectful of husbands who treat them poorly, they are expected to love unconditionally even in the face of multiple betrayal and loss of confidence, often in the most public manner.

And our ‘elders’ have let us down. The church has been complicit to a large extent. The sermons are mostly directed at wives; all the things she ought to do – but all she does will never be enough when there is such a huge imbalance, and where excessive indulgence is permitted by the church. And we are silenced when we protest at the sexist attitude of the church – we are called pagans, unbelievers, ‘do not touch my anointed’.

We are taught to cover up the shame of infidelity but who ought to bear the shame?. We have fostered a culture where husbands are mini dictators and where we are being told that it is our responsibility to bend over backwards to accommodate this head of the family dicta.

Raising children is not enough.

Wives are lonely, wives are sad, wives are having nervous breakdowns- they feel invisible, and this invisibility only gets worse as they get older. And when they grumble to friends, friends offer an unhelpful ” it is well” or tell them to concentrate on raising their children. But raising children is not enough for most. Raising children and having hot sex are different things, and you cannot have hot sex when all is not right in your marriage. You cannot have hot sex when your husband is sexing everything else. You cannot have hot sex when someone is mistreating you or when you feel disconnected. Forget hot sex, you cannot continue to love a man that shows the world that he doesn’t love you through his infidelity, his disrespect, and his dishonor. And I’m really sorry the love between a man and a woman even in marriage is not unconditional! I cannot love pain, you should not love pain. I cannot love sorrow, you should not love sorrow. That’s not love. That’s Stockholm Syndrome!

What is the point of highlighting these issues without solutions. I do not have a solution. But I know for sure that we need to start talking about dysfunctional marriages, the bundnce of them, and the fact that it’s not okay.

We need to talk for the protection of our children and for the marriages of the future. We also need to challenge our culture or traditions especially when it is silent in the face of abuse to women.

I wish women would stop taking relationship advice from ‘men’. And by this I mean men who are unqualified. These men are not Counsellors, Psychotherapists’ or Psychologists. They don’t know JACK about you or your partner. But they are perambulating as relationship experts on social media and even on TV. Some of them are labeling themselves as lifestyle coaches with little qualification to show. And worst still, a lot of these men have terrible track records of being awful partners to very many women. And you know what? Some women are doing it now too, they are on Facebook live, Instagram live! Talking about how you ought to ‘do’ your man!

Don’t get me wrong we can learn so much from other people, but in my opinion the tell-tale signs of a fraud is when you hear their advice predominantly directed at the woman; cook more, serve him, kneel when you serve him, have sex whenever he wants, pray for him, fast for him, he is your father. Have you ever wondered why these advisers direct their opinions 9and that’s all they are opinions) at women. Why aren’t many more relationship advisers targeting men with these half baked advise. I’ll tell you why, because it is easier and lazier. Telling women what to do, and how to do it still fits into the traditional norms of many patriarchal society.

I am not a relationship expert either. I am just a married woman concerned about the wrong messaging and the abuse of women under the guise of marriage, and our own complicity as women and as a society in this abuse. All I am saying is that marriage should for the most part be enjoyed, being realistic and mature about its ups and downs too. And as a woman it is not your sole responsibility to keep the marriage going, it’s a joint effort. You did not stand at the altar alone, you did not marry yourself, and before anyone makes reference to that Yoruba proverb ‘Obinrin lo un di ile mu’ which translates to ‘it’s the woman’s responsibility to ‘hold’ her home. We are not listening to that bullshit anymore. It has always and will always take two to make a relationship work and any advise that predominantly shifts the responsibility on the woman is wrong and dangerous.

I have observed that in the best relationships ‘power and responsibility’ doesn’t lie in one place, it shifts. Sometimes the husband is in the driving seat, and sometimes the wife is in the driving seat. I know that this idea of shifting ‘power and responsibility’ goes against the grain of how we as women have been raised especially in Nigeria. But it’s what I have observed in my own personal interpretation of healthy relationships. In those relationships, the man is the head sometimes, and sometimes the woman is the head. No one sits on the throne forever! And no, healthy couples rarely sit down to carve out when the man will be the head, or when the woman would be the head, it’s probably more organic, falling naturally to where the couple’s strengths lie. I am always adamant that in the healthiest of relationships a woman cannot always be in that submissive lane, nor can the man always lead. I warn you, if you stay in that submission lane for too long you will become redundant, a doormat. And if you think you can constantly be the leader, you will morph into a tyrant, and in time lose your captor.

People often challenge me by saying their parents have been married for 50 years and did it the ‘traditional way’ – and some would list barmy things like (no lie I’ve heard all of these):

My father didn’t eat yesterday’s stew so whatever my mom was up to she had to cook fresh everyday

My father can’t eat pounded yam with lumps so my mum would have to remake it

My father didn’t let my mum work

My father had affairs but told my mother she was number 1

Often, children from these backgrounds appear to accept that their home traditions is the natural and right order. Never have I heard them question the physical or emotional damage these imbalances might have had on their mother and even them. In fact they will argue that their mothers were happy, because she always looked happy or rarely voiced her discontent. But how many mothers burden their children with their deepest unhappiness? And one cannot judge happiness by the length of a marriage in a society where there is little support for those who leave their marriages, even under cruel and dire conditions; little support from the state, little support from the church, little support from the family). To point to length of marriage alone would be TOO simplistic. Being married for 50 years is not a goal. Being happy, feeling fulfilled and feeling accomplished whilst in the marriage ought to be the goal?.

Some few weeks ago I went to see the movie hidden figures under the misunderstanding that My friend had booked us to watch the movie Fences. She was just as surprised as I was when Hidden Figures started. By the end of the movie, we couldn’t grumble because Hidden Figures turned out to be a fantastic movie.

I finally got a chance to watch Fences enroute to Miami. If you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend it. It is a touching story which feels real and true. And the dialogue is sublime.

Mid-way through the movie I started to shift in my seat, wishing I was on land so I could urge every female friend I have to watch this movie and heed three explicit warnings:

1. Do not become complicit in your own mistreatment.
2. Do not lose your identity, destiny or purpose in a marriage.
3. And if you choose to do both, be acutely aware of the repercussions and own the consequences.

In the movie we see Rose ( Viola Davies) immerse herself in family life, loving her husband completely, taking on his family, his shortcomings, and dealing with it as some loving wives might. And although this was heart warming to watch in the beginning of the movie, these traits soon start to grate as the viewer realises that Rose through her complicity, was enabling some destructive behaviour; behaviour which would eventually tear her family life apart.

Rose’s husband wasn’t a stereotypical abusive husband or father. This would have been too lazy. What he was is probably closer to the reality of most destructive characters, they are rarely one dimensional. Troy was loving yet unkind, warm but bitter, responsible and irresponsible. He was traditional to a point of disregard. In his opinion his duty was to provide for his family. And as long as he did this successfully, everything else was inconsequential, including meeting the emotional needs of his children, and ultimately his wife.

Every relationship can learn something from this story. But I am specifically drawing attention to this beautiful piece of story telling because of the parallels I observe in a lot of Nigerian marriages. Often the Nigerian woman is advised to accept and tolerate the intolerable in marriage. We are encouraged accommodate bad behaviour under the falsehood that compromise is the foundation of a good marriage. The problem however, is that too often it is the woman who over- compromises, especially when the husband is a good provider like Troy. But this one sided compromising is at the expense of our future happiness, and more importantly our mental health.

Rose allowed her husband to get away with atrocious behaviour, this she admitted to towards the end of the movie. As the movie progressed, it became clear that men like Troy can become so self absorbed, they fail to see that they are mistreating their wives. And women like Rose, lose themselves so completely and absurdly in the superficial appearance of a healthy home; cooking for everybody, constantly fixing a plate; toiling. The way Rose was quick to enter the kitchen for Troy and his family; son from another relationship, her hisband’s friend, his brother, was both symbolic and a clever way of highlighting how women give.

Rose expected her husband to be loyal, loving, and attentive because she was. Unfortunately her passivity or compromises or submissiveness emboldened her husband’s bad behaviour, to their eventual detriment.

Women too get bored too: There was a scene where Troy was honestly trying to explain why he cheated, and I understood it completely. I even felt annoyed for understanding, but at 40 and after being married for over 12 years I know that marriage isn’t all roses and make up sex. Marriage is partly about those daily worries and palavers like mortgage, bills, in laws, child care difficulties. Marriage is about the grind. It is about misunderstandings, miscommunications, neglect, being taken for granted, hurt, and sometimes lies. And yes the feeling of wanting to escape is normal – having an affair can seem like escapism for some – for Troy – who wanted to feel alive, devoid of responsibilities, duty or obligation.

In the middle of his emotionally charged explanation Rose cut him dead. In fury and in hurt she reminded him that for 18 years she had stood by his side, casting her own dreams aside – supporting him, accepting his flaws, covering for his flaws, even at the detriment of her own children. And through snort and tears, the viewers realises that she knows, that she had given too much, and literary played herself out of the marriage. Because you can give too much in a marriage? Yes. You have no business or obligation to give away your destiny or purpose or dreams like she did . No one, not the man nor the children you bear will thank you in the end. And even if they do it probably wouldn’t be enough.

As married women we must be wary of the false notion that giving up on our own development, destiny, or life goals is tantamount to love. It is not. And a truly loving husband wouldn’t want or expect it.

More powerfully Rose highlights a point I wish every man would take away from this movie. That it is not the preserve of men to crave escapism; to want out from time to time. Most women feel this urge too, that desire to run, to cast aside the burden of responsibility, to hide even. And as Rose put it, to seek comfort, desire and escapism in the bed of someone different. But. And there is a powerful But. What stops a lot of women, and some men from cheating, at that real point of frailty, is a combination of discipline, maturity, self respect and will power – holding on to the commitment they made while keeping an eye on the bigger picture – a healthy relationship. This discipline may not be applicable where abuse is present, emotional or physical abuse or indeed neglect may drive women to seek solace with another.

Sadly, most patriarchal societies pretend that women simply don’t feel the desires Rose highlighted. I guess the very idea that women too feel this urge is itself an affront to the premise of patriarchy.

I had an unfortunate meeting at my daughter’s school this morning. Last week she went in with a twist out which I pinned up for her in the morning. Her hair was let down just as seen in the pictures above and below. When she got home, it was tied up in a bun, so I casually asked why she decided to put it up, she said she did so because her teacher said there was an Ofsted inspection that morning, and her hair looked “wild”. I was horrified when I heard the word “wild” I said “did she use the word wild”? My daughter said yes. I was livid!!!’ I didn’t want my daughter to know I was that upset so I shut went upstairs, fuming, I sat down and I wrote to the teacher expressing my dissatisfaction.

The school called me and we fixed a meeting with the Head teacher and the teacher in question. Sadly, I left feeling more frustrated than appeased. The Head teacher said I was the one that had a problem with the use of the term “wild”. She kept saying she described her own hair as wild frequently and saw no issue with it. She actually expressed her dissatisfaction with my own my letter, because I said “the school had an issue and history of not understanding Afro hair” ( they do ). She said this statement suggested that I was calling the school racist, or prejudice, when at least 2 of her close family members were married to Jamaicans, She said she understands Afro hair and I shouldn’t have brought race into it.

My good God!!!!! I was flabbergasted and completely certain that this school needed a diversity awareness course. Firstly, the term ” wild” conjures up unruly, unsightly and animalistic. Something that needs to be tamed. All of which my daughter’s hair was not on the day, and all of which shows an unconscious bias around what is deemed appropriate, or presentable according to a perception that bears no relation to the characteristics of an afro hair. This unconscious bias was slipping through in loose and derogatory language and it is the language which I sought to address.

I expressed in no uncertain term that I really didn’t care if the Head teacher described her own hair as wild, I do not want that term used to describe my daughter’s hair. Afro hair texture is not smooth or sleek in the way that Caucasian hair is. It grows up and not down and although it can be chemically straightened to look sleeker, lay flat, and look more European this is not a choice I’ll ever choose for my daughter, or indeed my own hair. I love Afro texture hair, I love it with its kinks, curls, coils and volume. When she was going to school that morning I brushed her hair, and I personally put two pins in her hair and sent her off saying your hair looks beautiful and she replied ” I really like it”. Now to those of you raising little black girls you know what an achievement it is to get them to the point where they “love” their natural hair.

We live in a society that has historically not appreciated the difference and beauty in Afro hair texture. This is not an indictment on the society, because even in many African countries it is often not celebrated or held as up as an ideal beauty. I had to stop wearing weaves, and even braids to instil confidence in my own daughter’s hair, so yes I was not going to let a teacher kill her new found confidence with the careless and offensive use of the word “wild”.

People may say oh she didn’t mean to cause offence, but that is not the point, she did cause offence, and she refused throughout to apologise insisting that the hair was untidy. No. my dauther’s hair was not untidy. What is untidy is the ignorance that still abounds where afro hair is concerned. What is untidy is that a lot of black people have been complicit in the rhetoric that our hair, as it grows from our scalp is unmanageable, untidy, unruly and in need of ‘something’ to make it presentable and acceptable. And often that something just happens to look more European.

The use of the term ‘wild’ is loaded, full of so much value judgement and indeed micro aggression. It’s the exact type of word that chips away at the confidence of a 9 year old, it highlights their difference in an unflattering and negative way and subconsciously forces them to concede and accept that they do not fit the beauty ‘ideal’. It is a rhetoric that I will fight against, for the sake of my daughter and her place in this world. I do not care if other mothers do not see it or get it, because of course according to the school I’m a trouble maker, not said directly but the Head said on more than one occasion that I’m the only Afro Caribbean parent who seems to have an issue with hair. That hurt my feeling. It hurt my feeling because I remain acutely aware that I live in a society that can be unintentionally prejudice yet if I raise it, question it, or challenge it I will be accused of playing the race card, of being overly sensitive, or of having a chip on my shoulder.

Let me be clear, I did not and do not accuse the school of racism. No. Fadeke likes her form teacher very much and she has never expressed being treated differently. But how can race not play a role in the description of Afro hair as ‘wild’. That the school fail to see this, and would defend it is more disturbing. In the end the teacher said she didn’t mean to cause offence, and the Head said it was an unfortunate use of the word, but I was under no illusion, they didn’t get it. And that continues to upset me.

Like this:

The real identities of the concerned individuals have been changed to protect their identity and respect their privacy. Even shitty people deserve privacy.

So my mate WhatsApps me 3 days ago” Titi! Titi! Isn’t Funke’s brother in law married??” Me “yes” silence … she is typing “So what’s he doing on Tinder then”? Me ” nooooooo I’ll call you NOW”!! I finish my Squats with the worse form ever and get on the phone!!!!

Rewind selecta!

I saw how Tinder operated some months ago from my mate. My mate is single. In fact one of the very many enjoyable things we did once was have a girls night in with me going through her Tinder account, swiping left or right. Ohhhhh you don’t know what Tinder is or how it works? Really? okay a quick explanation. Tinder is an online dating app that matches couples based on their physical attraction to one another. It alerts you to other Tinder users who fall within a specified age range and gender and are within a certain distance of your location. You decide whether or not you like the look of a person: if you do, swipe right; if you don’t, swipe left and they’ll never know. If you’re both interested then Tinder’s messaging function offers you a virtual private location where you can chat and get to know each other better.

Tinder is a dating website! A married man has no business being on Tinder! Now this post isn’t about men who cheat. No. That is a boring subject. This post is also not about declaring that all men are assholes. That’s not true! There are perfectly decent men who don’t and will never cheat. And you know what, there are also perfectly decent, good men, who f**k up once, because decent people do shitty things. But this is not about all that. This is about a special breed of married assholes, so brazen, so disrespectful, so audacious as to advertise themselves on a dating App used by more than 10 million users!. This right here is levels!

So I called Dayo! The sister in law! Of course I called Dayo! Are you F******* kidding me! I said “Dayo! Is your brother in law divorced or mad?” After I recounted the gist Dayo started laughing! Dayo always likes evidence – she said ” do you have evidence?” So I sent the communal Dick’s Tinder image. She calls back immediately laughing! She says “Jesus! Is this how these men are behaving! please let me go on Tinder and check if my own husband is there ooo” I quickly interrupt “if you join Tinder and someone sees you on it and reports you! you’ll have to explain that to your husband who wouldn’t believe you where there looking for him! so better don’t start wahala you can’t finish” we both laughed. Should we tell the madam of the communal dick? Hell No! Ain’t no one like that chick anyhow …… and I’ve avoided drama in my life from time …… I’m only loyal to my friends sorry! And ain’t no one like that bitch anyhow 🙈🙈🙈